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Poems and Proses 



Pauline Gregory, 



" There is nothing in the earth so small that it may not preduce 
great things." 

—Proverbial Philosophv. 



' O germ, O fount, O word of love, 
O thought at random cast, 

Ye were but little at the first, 
And mighty at the last." 



-T. B. Read. 




KANSAS CITY, MO.: 

PRESS OF RAMSEY, MILLETP & HUDSON, 

1880. 






(a 



Entered According to an Act of Congress, in the year One Thousand 
Eight Hundred and Eighty, 

By PAULINE GREGORY. 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 



Dedication. 



WITH TENDER MEMORIES OF OUR CHILDHOOD, 

AND 

IN TOKEN OF SISTERLY SYMPATHY AND LOVE, 

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED 

TO MY DEAR BROTHER, THOMAS E. GREGORY, 

BY HIS 

SISTER PAULINE. 



Preface. 

Though this Httle book was written chiefly for 
my dearest friends, I hope it may also please others, 
who are so fortunate as to love original simplicity 
and truth. 



8 POEMS AND PROSES. 

I know that thy harp will forever be strung, 

And sweetly, O sweetly be swept; 
While garlands of beauty about it are hung, 

By angels that never have wept. 

And I know by the beautiful river of peace, 
With the fair and the good thou art met; 

In a gentle communion of sanctified bliss, 
That leaveth no tone of regret. 

I know thou art resting from every alloy. 
Amid light that shall never go down ; 

While memory turns with a holier joy, 

To hearts that on earth are thine own. 

Yet thy kindred in spirit are calling thee here, 
Where sadly, too sadly they roam ; 

While the past and the present, with many a tear, 
Compel us to murmer, O, come ! 

Come back to us ; come in the brightness of morn, 

Or the holier twihght of even ; 
Come back to us; come when the moonlight is born, 

And whisper a legend of heaven. 

Tell now in thy musical accents of love. 
How the seraphim greeted thee there; 



POEMS AND PROSES. 9 

How the Father His infinite goodness to prove, 
Hath sent thee a messenger here. 

And tell me, O tell ! thou redeemed and free, 
Of that Friend who hath given thee rest ; 

Of Him who hath saved thee, and made thee to be 
His own, in chat home of the blest. 



A THOUGHT. 

I cannot rejoice in the glories of time. 
That are filling the earth and the air, 

If they whisper no truth of a holier clime- 
If no voice of my Father is there. 



ALL THINGS SPEAK TO ME OF GOD. 

All things speak to me of God, 

All things — all things everywhere — 

Flowers that waken from the sod. 
Birds that float upon the air. — 



POEMS AND PROSES. 

Dews that sparkle in the sun, 

Morning light and eve's decline, 

Rills that murmur as they run. 
All proclaim a Hand divine. 

Stars that gem the brow of night, 
Suns that gladden as they roll. 

Storms that startle in their flight. 

Seas that circle round the pole. — 

These in their subHmer course. 

Tell of infinite control. 
Speaking with resistless force — 

Him whose name is " Wonderful. 

All things speak to me of God, 

Yet the soul would pine and die, 
If his all-surpassing word, 

Brought no manna from on high. 

If unto the weary heart. 

Came no blessed saving love, 
If we had no holy part, 

In the better land above. 



POEMS AND PROSES. i 

I SEE THEE STILL, MY FATHER. 

I see thee still, my father, tho' the green 
Grass curtains thy repose, and the pale 
Violets have oft come up and died 
Around thy resting-place. Surely I see 
Thee ! at thy quiet hearth, and in the hall, 
And in thy garden walks : and when I stand 
Beside thy stately form, and look up to 
Thy face, and. call thee father, then I feel 
The tender light of thy blue eyes, and almost 
Hear thy voice. The gift of mem'ry is a 
Holy telescope ; and now I see the sadly — 
O how sadly ! Languidly thy steps have 
Led thee to the river's bank, and thou dost 
Sit for the last time within thy chosen bower. 
And gaze too mournfully upon the earth 
And sky, and waters. Long and truely these 
Had been a joy to thee; and I almost believe 
They felt thy parting presence, and with looks 
Of love, smiled for thy sake. Softly fell the 
Autumn sunlight on thy silken silvery 
Locks, my father ! gently the dying leaves 
Came down about thee, and the sweet star-flower 
Kissed lovingly thy feet. Yet now, alas ! 



5 POEMS AND PROSES. 

There is no gladness in thy heart; and by 
The mournful light upon thy brow, I know 
Thou'rt thinking of the time, when God will be 
The only Father of thy children. 
Again, how solemnly I see thee, O my father ! 
Even in thy cold repose, with beauty 
On thy brow, and flowers strewn around thee, 
For the last, last time within thine earthly home. 
Even now I see thee lonely in thy coffin. 
As we laid thee down and kissed thee, with 
That mournful parting kiss, that cannot^ cannot 
Pass away, while in the light of memory 
And love, my father dear, I see thee still. 



THE SOUL OF THE BEREFT. 

Mournfully the morning breaketh. 
Painfully the eyes unclose. 

Wearily the spirit waketh, 

When the heart no gladness knows. 

When the friends we love are hidden, 
By the dreadful hand of death, 

When, for us, the tones of Eden, 
Cannot come again on earth — 



POEMS AND PROSES. 13 

When the light within is faded, 

When life's roses all are dead, 
When the sunshine all is shaded, 

And our every thought is sad, 

Then it is, the spirit turneth, 

To the balmy light above — 
Then it is, the weary learneth 

Rest^ of Him whose name is Love. 



A SWEET THOUGHT. 

There's a beautiful band in the heavenly land, 
Who lovingly talk about me. 



VINES. 



Give me tendrils, living tendrils. 
Reaching out upon the air, 
Like a deep heart ever wishing. 
Something trustful might be near. 

Give me vines that run together. 
Binding up each other's way. 
Showing man how strength from weakness. 
May be woven day by day. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 

Give me vines that climb and cluster, 
Round the seared and blighted tree, 
Making sweet his desolation, 
Making green his sad decay. 

Give me vines to twine in sadness, 
O'er the graves of those I love, 
Even there they whisper gladness. 
From the holy bowers above. 

Give me vines to wreathe in beauty, 
Every home of man on earth, 
Gentle lessons they will teach him ; 
Lessons all of truth and worth. 

Vines of beauty, how I love you ! 
In the air or on the sod, 
Everywhere ye mutely utter, 
Praises to my Father, God. 



MY SONG IN THE NIGHT. 

[/« the moonlight of a December evening. "[ 

In the beautiful light of this cold stilly night, 
That comes down from the glories above. 
My heart is all joy, with the blessed employ 
Of wonder, and worship, and love. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 13 

Oh, the mercy and grace, that have kept me in peace, 
Through the fiery trials of time ! 
In the night and the day, ever showing the way 
That leads to a holier clime! 

And the angels come down, from the royal white 

throne, 
To watch o'er the Father's lone child, 
They come, and they stay, ever blessing the way, 
Because my Redeemer hath smiled. 

Holy angels of light, in their raiment of white, 
Are veiled from the children of men; 
But we know of their worth, for their coming to earth, 
Is written again and again. 

I adore thee, O Lord, for thy perfect own Word, 
Revealing rich blessings unseen: 
Shedding holiest light, and dispelling the night, 
From souls where it entereth in. 

In the beautiful light of this cold stilly night. 
That comes down from the glories above. 
My heart is all joy, with the blessed employ, 
Of wonder, and worship, and love. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 



TO MY SISTER LUCY. 

Thine was an angel grace, dear Lu, 
Thine was a gentle mien, 
Thine was the highest, purest soul 
That ever I have seen. 

Thy heart was made of holy tones, 
Thy brow was bathed in thought, 
Thy words the sweetest melody, 
My spirit e're hath caught. 

Thy name is very mournful now, 
And tears attest thy worth. 
Darkness abideth o'er the world. 
Thou art not on the earth. 

Thou art not on the earth, O, no ! 
Thy home is now in heaven. 
When shall I live beside thee there. 
When shall my rest be given ? 



POEMS AND PROSES. 17 

TO MY MOTHER'S EYELASH. 

Found on a page my mother had been reading. 

Lash, thou art a sacred thing, 
And the deeds that hallow thee, 

To my soul doth sweetly cling, 
With an immortality. 

Lifted in a thousand vigils — 

Laved in love's most holy tears — 

Thou hast hung to guard the glances, 
Of my mother's hopes and fears. 



MY SISTER SLEEPS. 

My sister sleeps ! My sister sleeps, 

Beside the garden walk. 
She never wakes, nor smiles, nor weeps. 
But day and night my sister sleeps. 

Close by the garden walk. 

And yet, and yet, my sister lives, 

In light and joy above, — 
I know she lives, and loves, and sings, 
With saints and prophets, priests and kings. 

Close by thy throne above. 



1 8 POEMS AND PROSES. 



SABBATH HYMN. 



My Father, God most high, 

hear me when I call ! 

Lift on me thine atoning eye, 

And say I shall not fall — 

Go with me through this holy day, 
Teach thou my soul thy perfect way. 

1 see that thou art great, 
I feel that thou art good, 
Humbly I worship at thy feet, 
And pine for thy abode ; 

I long to see thee as thou art. 
And serve thee with a sinless heart. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

Written one year after the death of my dear friend Mrs. Sallie 
Menzies Miles, June /j. 

This day within my heart and home 
Let mournful tears be shed — 
In such a day of light and bloom, 
' Twas said unto my heart and home, 
Thy priceless friend is dead ! - 



POEMS AND PROSES. 19 

This day within my heart and home, 
Let mournful tears be dried ; 
The leaves and flowers again have come, 
Telling of him who breaks the tomb — 
My friend is glorified ! 



A FRAGMENT. 

I have held converse with the earth, and air. 
And sky — my spirit hath gone up in many 
Variations of the day and night, floating 
Amid the beautiful, and harping silently — 
All silently — hosannas unto Him 
Who made a universe so full of 
Wonders and of love. 



HEREAFTER. 



Upon the waveless ether, love, 
Thy bark of life shall often float, 
And I will be the blessed one 
Beside thee in that peaceful boat. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 

AN HISTORY. 

Once on a stormy winter's night, 

A pair of startled birds, 

Came where they saw a peaceful light, 

Beam through a window warm and bright. 

And called, tho' not with words. 

The flutter of the little wings. 
Cried — quickly let me in ! 
And now perchance the minstrel sings, 
Of cottage-home and kindly things, 
Where no one calls in vain. 

We blessed them when we said good-night, 
And shut them safely in; 
I kissed them in the morning light. 
And gave them to their upward flight, 
In paths that know no sin. 

Perhaps it is a needless theme, 

To pray for such as these, 

Yet, to my heart the thought would come — 

They have no bright immortal home, 

Then bless them. Father, please ! 



POEMS AND PROSES. 21 

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG PASTOR. 

Another watchman is gone to rest, 
From his work beneath the sun, 
Another star from the earth has passed 
To its orbit about the throne. 

Another flock is left unfed, 
By the Hving voice and word, 
Another glorious vine is dead. 
And another wail is heard. 

Weep, friends, weep, for the loss of one 

Who has gone from your path like the setting 

sun, 
The setting sun of a radiant day. 
When the love of God is in every ray, 
And religion in every tone. 

But not for him. Oh, not for him ! 
Let the heart be sad, and the eye be dim, 
He hath gladly gone with the angels bright, 
To live in a land of perfect light. 
And sweet is that home to him. 



22 POEMS AND PROSES. 

Yet weep ye, ' tis good on earth to weep, 
For the vacant place, and the need so deep, 
The vacant place in a chosen throng, 
The need where fields have been white so long, 
And the reaper may not reap. 

Weep, friends, weep, ' tis a balmy thing, 
A blessed gift, a refining spring. 
Weep, that ye loved not more, even more, 
The bright one gone from your house of prayer, 
Yes, weep, while ye hope and sing. 

And let the monument ye build, 
Be of ''living stones," complete, 
A fabric of love, and the tablet filled. 
With works of obedience sweet. 



THAT SONG. 



Sweet sister, sing that song again. 
But sing it soft and low. 
To me it is a sacred strain. 
And fraught almost with woe. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 23 

I know it is a glad bright song, 
And sung in halls of glee, 
Once in a blessed joyous throng, 
'Twas sweetly sung for me. 

I loved it then, I love it still, 
Tho' all that light is o'er, 
And music now is but a wail, 
For joys that come no more. 

Sweet sister, sing that song again, 
But sing it soft and low. 
Sing 'til the consecrated strain, 
Compel these tears to flow. 



AN EVENING SUPPLICATION. 

God of the evening, now to thee, 

A grateful heart I bring, 
And from this altar of the earth. 

Take thou mine offering. 

Take it, and in that wondrous book, 
Well kept by thee in heaven. 

Oh, for the great Redeemer's sake. 
Write all my sins forgiven. 



24 POEMS AND PROSES. 

Help me this night, and let my heart 
Grow holier in thy love ; 

Shield every one within my home, 
From all the ills that rove. 

Soon, very soon, let saving grace, 
Reign o'er a contrite world. 

And Father, let the friends I love, 
Live close within thy fold. 

Then, when Ufe's varied day is done. 

And my last sleep is given, 
Let angel bands who love me best, 
Obedient to thy high behest, 
Carry my soul to heav'n. 



TO A WHITE PEBBLE. 

Of all the senseless things of earth, 
That's fashioned by a hand divine, 

Except a flower of fragrant worth, 

Thou art dearest to this heart of mine. 
White pebble. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 25 

A SONG OF MY SPIRIT. 

Truths there are that have not been told, 

Gems there are that can not be sold; 

There are blessed melodies y^ untaught, 

And wealth all around us that none have sought. 

There are pages of beauty yet unfound, 
There are tones of balm that have yet no sound ; 
There are gardens of peace unplanted yet, 
And smiles of affection that none have met. 

There's "a joy in grief" that some have known; 
Such peace cometh down from the Lord alone; 
And He in the human soul hath set 
Those tones divine are nameless yet. 

There is "one thing needful," and that we have; 
Of the Water of Life, all, all may quaff; 
And the pearly gates of a home on high, 
Are open to all who believe and die. 



26 POEMS AND PROSES. 

PRAYER OF THE MOTHERLESS. 

Father, from thy throne on high, 
Look upon my waUing heart, 
Listen to my mournful cry. 
Stay the surges as they start. 

Hold me ever in thy hand; 

Help me in thy perfect way ; 
Be my counselor and friend ; 

Teach me, Father, how to pray. 



WASHINGTON. 

Many have sung thy praises, mighty chieftain. 

From the days of thy high deeds till now, 

The gifted and the good have woven songs 

And garlands for thy name. The great and wise 

Have wondered at thy loveliness; and 

Little children ev'rywhere are taught to 

Be like thee. Millions of freemen call- 

Thee father; and the wide world sendeth up 

To God a reverential verdict of thy 

Pure renown. And yet, thou glorious one 

And blessed, I, a daughter of thy clime. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 27 

And kindred of the patriots, send from 
This soul of mine to thee, a voiceless tribute. 
For when e'er I look upon thy face, or 
Muse upon thy gentle majesty, or 
Hear thy praises, then my heart grows deeper, 
As if swept by thrilling music, and I 
Feel a strangely loving wish to turn aside 
And weep. Silently, gratefully, mine is 
A gift of tears. 



JOY IN BELIEVING. 

I love to think upon that home 
Prepared for me on high; 

I love to think there is a time 
When I shall fade and die. 

' Tis sweet to know that angel bands, 

All radiant from above. 
Will bear me in their holy hands 

To realms of perfect love. 



28 POEMS AND PROSES. 



PRESENTATION VERSES. 

Written in my brother Edwin's Bible. 

This holy book, dear brother mine, 
Is a gift to thee from the hand divine; 

It is water and manna thy soul to bless, 
It is a light for life's darksome wilderness. 

Then keep it near thee, this only chart, 

That can guide to God and the pure in heart ; 

And with this gift from the throne above. 
Take a sister's prayer and a sister's love. 



I here insert the reply of my dear brother, for its sweetness, and 
for his sake . 



I thank thee, sis, for this book of truth, 
May it guide aright a wandering youth, 
May its precepts indeed be the holy chart, 
To keep from all evil his wayward heart. 
I will keep it near me, this gift of thine, 
As the richest boon from the hand divine ; 
May it guide my soul to the throne above. 
Where all is pure as a sister's love. 



POEMS AND PROSES, 29 

AN EVENING MEDITATION. 

Written in the days of my youth. 

O, what are all the joys I have, 
The blessings kmdly given, 
If after gliding to the grave, 
I have no home in heaven. 

I'd bless the chastisement divine 
Of feelings crushed and riven. 
If happily it might refine 
My hving soul for heaven. 



ONE TEAR. 



On mother's eye there hung a tear- 
One tear, why should it be ? 
Was it for mem'ries old and dear. 
Or a tender thought of me ? 

Or, was it the dew of a holier thought, 
From the spirit's deep abode, 
A worshiping incense welling out 
From my mother's heart to God? 

I do not know ! I do not know ! 
And I will not ask her why ; 



so POEMS AND PROSES. 

But a record is written where I shall go, 
And a book of the beautiful there may show, 
Of that tear on my mother's eye. 



THE CLOUDS. 

The clouds! the clouds! in their expanse, 
How grand and beautiful ! 
They come and go, and float and flow. 
And look the same but once. 



ON SEEING THREE VERY WICKED MEN 
PASS BY. 

Alas for the fallen! how dreadful, how dark, 
Are the ways and the wages of sin ! 
I look on the outcast, I think of his work, 
And read the deplorable, terrible mark 
Of the spoiler of spirits within. 

O Father Almighty ! O Savior divine ! 
Have mercy on these and on all ; 



POEMS AND PROSES. 

I think of thy wisdom and will not repine, 

Tho' deep in the cup of the wicked remain 

The dregs of the wormwood and gall. 



LINES WRITTEN IN MY SISTER LUCY'S 
ALBUM. 

" Write in my Aldum, sister.^' — LucY A. Gregory. 

Sister, methinks that word was coined in paradise, 

Ere man or woman knew a gleam of aught 

But holiness ! And what shall I say to one 

So called, so bound, so treasured? 

Words of love I leave for other voices — friendship 

All doth offer thee — that thou art my spirit's siskr 

In all its brightest and best aspirings 

Is surely known — yet, here we trace it for 

A token, may be, when the silver cord 

Of my spirit shall be loosed— that thou 

Shalt remember how incomplete we fear 

Would be the bliss of heaven, without the 

Blent light of thy spirit. Then be thou pure 

In heart, for such are "blessed" — seek to be 

Ever ''as a little child, for of such 

Is the kingdom of heaven." 



32 POEMS AND PROSES. 

* 

SNOW FLAKES. 

Snow flakes fall upon the earth, 

Lowly — O how lowly ! 
Looking, as they come and stay, 
Like the pure in heart who pray. 
Making earth more holy. 

Snow flakes rest upon the earth, 

Brightly — O how brightly! 
Like the robe of perfect love, 
Given from the throne above, 
To the righteous only. 

Snow flakes-die upon the earth, 

Gently — ^^O how gently! 
Showing unto mortal eye 
How the death-light from on high 
Cometh to the saintly. 



PROSES, 



THOUGHTS AMONG THE FLOWERS. 

How beautiful — how passing beautiful ye are, 
sweet flowers ! And how magically falls upon the 
human heart that eloquence divine which ye alone 
can breathe ! How deep-toned and suasive is the 
mute melody which only ye can pour upon the sym- 
pathetic soul — that sweet soft spell of living harmony 
that is too exquisite for the coarse medium of sound, 
and yet, by a look, can thrill the heart most deeply, 
thus showing us, it may be, that the loveliest truths 
and emotions are mute, so that the eye and spirit 
alone may discern them. How beautiful ye are ! 
and O how much I wish ye had a consciousness of 
my heart's tribute to your loveHness ! Yet ye Hnger 
not upon the glad earth long enough to learn how' 
much I love you. But methinks ye say, with your 
thousand lips of sweetest eloquence, we are not come 
to win affection from the heart of man ; we find favor 
more congenial in dew drops and sunbeams and 



34 POEMS AND PROSES. 

breezes. The living light is the center to which our 
being deeply turns, and in that law, as in others, we 
show forth wisdom to the children of men. "Turn 
ye to the light," is the loveliest admonition in all our 
deep-leaved volume of lore for mankind. We are 
messengers, loving, generous, and glad messengers 
to the fallen children of this bright green earth. And 
what do we not teach ? The mystery of our own life 
and loveliness is eloquent of God, as "the divinity 
that stirs " within the immortal mind of man. And 
then, we send up our incense of praise in the holiest 
hours of morning and evening twilight ; we bend in 
the storm and gently bow in the breeze to teach men 
graceful submission ; we smile and cling, and breathe 
the sweet soul of affection, to tell how woman should 
be, in the garden of life. We would be a charm 
and a vision of gladness to all around us, while we 
Lve, and then we die to tell how " all that's bright 
must fade," to live again. 

So spake the flowers to me as I mused upon 
their teachings of poetry and philosophy ; and then 
I sought to separate those pages or voices of beauty 
and wisdom, and I found the philosophy of flowers 
lo be poetry, and their poetry philosophy, and both 
10 be a blending of religion and love. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 35 

A thousand analogies may be found and traced 
between individual flowers and feelings of the human 
heart, or traits of human character, and some are 
painful as they are striking. One of the fairest flow- 
ers I ever saw was odorless, and one of the fairest 
human faces I ever saw seemed soulless. The deep- 
est nectary is apt to contain a mingling of poison, 
and the most gifted minds are often the most hapless 
to themselves and to the world. I have seen a 
bright and graceful flower so offending in its breath 
that I could not approach it, and then I have seen al^ 
that is fairest and best in beautiful humanity set forth in 
floral grace, until I almost believed that flowers had 
intelligence and emotions. The violet of content 
will grow anywhere and look glad; the con\-olvulus 
will twine itself a green isle of beauty, though its 
mantle of love be thrown upon the most worthless 
thing. The primrose of evening will unfold only to 
the night, and collapses in death so soon as the stars 
of its love cease to smile upon its bloom. The ever- 
green is greenest in the snowstorm ; and the willow 
mourns in graceful sorrow, which the sad heart feels 
to be the reality of submissive woe. There is surely 
a wise poetry in the beautiful fact that the fairest 
flowers are the most sensitive — that thev die at the 



36 POEMS AND PROSES. 

tiniest touch of coldness, and that in dying they are 
sweetest. I have seen a withered rose look more 
than human, in its mute sickness, and its fragrance, 
when its beauty was really ashes, has been to me a 
message as winning and potent as the voice of my 
mother, or a sister's love. Flowers are never perfect 
in an ungenial clime, and no touch of earth, or air, 
or light, is without its influence upon them. And 
this is human too. And so "the wise read nature 
like the manuscript of heaven, and call the flowers 
its poetry." They are akin to us, and like the stars, 
and the deep heart of aff'ection, they are a beauty 
and a mystery. 



DO NOT FORGET. 

We must read the whole Bible in order to know 
how very sinful it is to disobey God, or to forget the 
praise that belongs to Him, for His mercies, and for 
" his wonderful works to the children of men." 



POEMS AND PROSES. 37 

CURIOUS WISDOM. 

History informs us that Socrates deliberately 
married a scolding wife, in order to cultivate in 
himself the beautiful virtue of patience. I have 
often wished to know if that great philosopher found 
it to be a wise expedient. If he did, the lady Xan- 
t Ippe — his stormy wife — must have scolded beauti- 
fully. It is ^possible thing, for one to scold gracefully, 
and with a charm, when scolding is the least of two 
evils. 



A GREAT LESSON. 

Not many things in profane literature have ever 
seemed to me so potent and true, as a few words of 
poor Byron, which he utters by the mouth of the 
Prisoner of Chillon, when he says : 

'' My very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us what we are." 
The deep lesson in those words is momentous. 
I would teach it earnestly to mothers — I would ex- 
plain it to children, and expound it to young gentle- 



3S POEMS AXD PROSES. 

men. Certainly it is true that, if a man wishes his 
nature to grcnv upward and expand — if he would be a 
glory and a blessing in the earth, like the tall oak 
amid the sunshine and the storm, he must be very 
careful what manmr of person he loves and weds. 

" So much a long communion tends 

To make us what we are." 



MISERABLE 



It is wonderful to know \\o\\ niucn power the 
poets have, to help or to hinder the blessedness of 
our human existence. "Tom Moore" has written 
one hideous fallacy, which has so much prevertirg 
power in its melcdy, that it seems a duty to rebuke 
it. It is in a song of tenderness, where he makes a 
noble woman say : 

" I know not. I ask not \^ guilt's in that heart, 
I but know that I love thte whatever thcu art.'' 
Human words could not tell how fearful and Sa- 
tanic it stems to me for mortals so to love, and so to 
ued. Yet the world is full of it. 



FOEMS AND PROSES. 39 



GREAT RICHES. 

To ha\e a good name, and feel conscious of de- 
serving it, is one of the richest of all earthly reahties. 



AX APPREHENSION. 

If Cato the Censor were here, in our great age 
of wonders and of light, it is possible that he would 
say that, too many persons look well, walk well, dress 
well and talk well, who really know nothing about 
living and loving, and never will know, though they 
believe themselves to be well endowed with abilities 
for both. 



OF DOCTORS. 



A Christian physician has access to human hearts 
and minds and souls, that no other person can pos- 
sibly have. No other human being is delegated with 
powers and privileges like his to help the needy, 
while he walks and works among the living, and 
sutfering, and dying, who are immortal. 



40 POEMS AND PROSES. 

CURIOUS MOTHERS. 

There are many mothers that are called good, 
who do very Httlefor their children but to feed them, 
and clothe the bodies that they feed. How can a 
mother be good, who never taught her child to pray 
to its Creator and Redeemer. Can she possibly stand 
in the great tribunal without shame and confusion 
of face ? 



DIVINE. 



There is a beautiful significance in the fact, that 
the Redeemer of the world lived thirty years with 
his earthly parents, '''' andivobs subject to them.'' 



THAT HOME BY THE RIVER. 

No limner can paint the livingness of beauty, 
however Hfe-like his portraits may be, and no words 
can give a just idea of the sweetness of my parental 
home; and yet, my heart impels me to write a sim- 
ple memorial of its departed worth. — The home of 
my childhood — the home that my father made in the 
wilderness — the home that my mother adorned and 



POEMS AND PROSES. 41 

blest — the home where I learned all that I know 
about living and loving, sorrowing and rejoicing — 
above all, the home where I learned to love God su- 
premely and beheve him implicitly. 

In the beautiful valley of East Bend, on the Ken- 
tucky shore of the Ohio river, forty-five miles below 
the city of Cincinnati, my father selected the place for 
his home because of its peculiar beauty. The river 
runs eastward there, and looks like a long lake, with 
hills just high enough and far enough above and be- 
low our home. In 181 2 my father removed his fam - 
ily to this spot, and there, where no tree had been 
felled in the forest, he literally "pitched his tent," 
and lived in it until he could build a house with logs 
cut from his own woodland. How brave and strong 
he must have been, to make voluntarily a home in 
such a forest. The trees were many and large, but 
perseverance did overcome the giant hosts ; and fields 
and gardens were soon growing, where so long the 
wilderness had slept in winter, and worn its rich foli- 
age in summer. In after life it was sweet to hear my 
father and mother talk of those toiling happy days. 
In a few years that home became a little world of 
comfort and beauty. As a legend of that time and 
place, I will record an incident which I have heard 



42 POEMS AND PROSES. 

my dear mother narrate. A gentleman of taste nnd 
culture, chanced to be traversing that part of Ken- 
tucky on foot, as a summer recreation, and passing 
along our shore, climbed the high bank to see what 
might be found up there. My dear father was work- 
ing in the garden, and hidden from the stranger by the 
clustering vines. He was surprised by hearing a 
strange voice saying earnestly : " Surely celestial be- 
ings dwell in this place ! " Father then turned from 
the vines to the visitor and said : ' ' No sir ! only com- 
mon mortals live in this place." Of course these 
two became friends, and I think the stranger after- 
ward became a votary at the shrine of my elder sis- 
ter's lovliness, which was quite as rare and poetic as 
that of our rural home. That home was then so re- 
mote from all the world, that they called it Lonely 
Cottage. In my earliest recollection there were only 
a few forest trees in the wide yard, one stately oak, 
three k^ beech trees, and one sugar maple, with 
its lofty top bowing to the East, as with a sort of 
homage to the Orient. These trees my father had left 
on the brow of the bank as a matter of taste ; and I 
thank him for it now, for I loved them with a glad 
sort of affection, and I love them yet, though one by 
one I saw them pass away. There were benches 



FOEAJS A. YD FJWSES. 43 

under those tree?, where we could sit and look upon 
the face of " the beautiful river," and read, or sew, 
or talk, or meditate, in the sweet lights and shadows 
of the universe. Those beech trees died sadly, slotv- 
ly and 7nournfully, from carvings on the bark. Friends 
and visitors made albums of their silvery surface; 
and very far up they were covered with names, and 
dates, and stanzas of poetry. The dear old oak lived 
on, a glory and a blessing in its home, until we were 
obliged to cut it down. The dashing waves, caused 
by steamboats, had washed our bank, until we fear- 
ed our tree would fall into the river, and then my 
brother Thomas cut it down with his own hand. 
Every member of our household wept over its fallen 
prostrate form — every one except my father, and he 
was very sad. Until this time there had been a 
second bank along our shore, a bank above the 
broad beach, and below the higher bank — a sort of 
terrace, where trees, and vines, and flowers abound- 
ed in wild perfection. No rural walk could be more 
beautiful than it was. On this second bank and close 
to the side of the higher bank, there was a rail fence ; 
and just below the beech trees, on the second bank, 
there was a small sugar maple teee, growing so close 
to the fence, that I could sit on a limb of the tree and 



44 POEMS AND PROSES. 

have the fence for a foot-stool. It was heavenly to 
sit there with a book ; especially if my mother was 
near me under the beech trees, and when the dog- 
wood was in bloom. But alas, alas! The river that 
we loved so well washed all those rural riches away 
from us. Then the time came to build a better house 
and make new gardens, where the bank was higher 
and almost as beautiful as the other had been. .There 
we had but three forest trees — two tulip trees and one 
grand old sycamore. 

Yet what matter about grounds, and trees, and 
flowers I The beauty of our home was found in ways, 
and words, and tones — its pure and peaceful atmos- 
phere. Few homes ever knew so little of worldli- 
ness. My father cared nothing for common riches. 
He only wished for his children to be upright, lov- 
ing, independent and useful. Rectitude, uncom- 
promising rectitude, was his idea of real riches. With- 
out it, nothing could be valuable to his mind, and 
with it, life must inevitably be safe and beautiful. 
Contentment, and industry, and taste, with the ab- 
sence of calculating selfishness, made that home a 
])eculiar place. I shall not see on earth again a hos- 
pitality like that of my father and mother, nor a 
home so gentle and so unpretending. And yet, with 



POEMS AND PROSES. 45 

all its peaceful, and gentle, and generous ways, that 
home was imperfect, there was no family altar there, 
to make it, as it should have been, a perfect sanctu- 
ary. I still grieve to think, that our household did 
not bow together before the Lord, and praise him daily 
for all his goodness and mercy. Alas, alas ! That 
this must be written in a faithful memorial of that 
beauteous home. God w^as very good when he guid- 
ed my father to that rural place. The sky bends over 
it with* "rare benignity," and with all its toils and 
cares it suited us. There is great utility in solitude 
and in the beautiful. 

Years of life, and love, and sorrow passed over 
us in that home. Death-beds, and wailings, and an- 
guish, were there, and w^hen the tomb and the bridal 
had taken away all the dear ones save my mother 
and me, we gave up the sweet sad home into the 
hands of strangers. Sweet and dear as it was we sold 
it, and said to it farewell! And Oh, how solemn w^as 
that day and that reality ! Nothing is hke it save the 
burial of the dead, when that dead is well beloved 
and beautiful. On that sad day I made a covenant 
with my heart that we would never look back repin- 
ingly, and we never have. Thanks to the strength- 
ening from on high, we do not repine. It is sweet 



46 POEMS AND PROSES. 

and solacing to carry about in my heart memories of 
that home on the bank of the river — that river with 
Ife silvery waves. All my twelve dear gallant broth 
ers, have worked, and learned, and played, in that 
home — my three fair sisters have been good and 
graceful there.— Father, and brothers, and my blue- 
eyed sister are sleeping there with folded hands in a 
consecrated mound. Sad and sweet are the ties that 
bind me forever to that one place. Now, in the 
evenino; of my life, it blesses me to remember that 
my father and mother were poetically devoted to 
each other in that home. When he was almost four 
score years old he would gather the sweetest flowers, 
and fill her vase by the window with his own hand. 
I love to remember how she adorned her table with 
sweet leaves and flowers, and gave the prettiest to 
my father and to her guests. Perhaps no toiling per- 
son ever delighted in the beautiful so much as did 
ray priceless mother, in her home on the bank of the 
river. Mighty changes have come over the earth 
since her '■ tent was pitched" in that place. I have 
heard her tell how she " called all the boys from the 
fields" when the first steamboat passed down the 
river. The first of all steamboats must have been a 



POEMS AND PROSES. 47 

great wonder, a marvelous thing of art and genius, 
to those who dwelt on the bank of the river. 

Blessed be the place of thy rest, my dear old 
home ! and blessed be the hills and vales of my na- 
tive land ! many goodly homes adorn its rich domain. 
Many are its noble sons and daughters. Many are 
its altars and temples, that consecrate it fittingly to 
Him who ruleth over all things, forever and forever. 
Dear and beautiful to me, is all the land of Ken- 
tucky. 



MY BLUE-EYED SISTER. 

I fefti one blue-eyed sister, and would that my 
pen could tell how lovely she was, from her child- 
hood^ until she died, like the roses when they perish 
in their prime. Long years have passed since those 
blue eyes were closed and hidden in the grave, yet 
in memory I can see them still, and feel a premoni- 
tion of angelic harmonies. But it was not the blue 
eyes that made her so guileless, and faultless, and 
good. Perhaps the angels are not more tender, and 
gentle, and benign. It was ever a joy to me to gaze 
upon her calm, sweet face, and it is now a blessed 



48 POEMS AND PROSES. 

privilege to recall her aspect and her nature. She 
was a rare and beautiful cotiipleteness. Her person, 
her face, her manner, her voice and spirit, all blend- 
ed into one symmetrical concord. Many have told 
me, that she was the most faultless person they had 
ever seen. A gentleman who had been ambassador 
to foreign courts, once said, that ''Miss Lucy Greg- 
ory was the most compkteAy elegant and lovely person 
he had ever met." Her brow was fair, with its soft 
brown hair, and her symmetrical person was neither 
tall nor short. Her serenity was wonderful. She 
was always calm. When we heard that our sister 
Angeline had died, she uttered one deep wail of an- 
guish, which was the only high sound I ever heard 
from her voice, in any time of grief or gladness. In 
childhood she never played noisily like other children. 
I love to remember the angelic sweetness of my 
little biue-eyed sister. She would go about the yard 
and gather one hand full of flowers, but never gath- 
ered more than one kind at one time, never. She 
was petted, admired, loved, from her infancy, yet 
never evinced the least emotion of vanity. She had 
very many good offers of marriage, but none of them 
quite suited her. She told me that once she had 
thought herself "in love," but when she met the 



POEMS AND PROSES. 49 

person so loved, after an absence of months, she 
was surprised to think he had ever been so interest- 
ing to her. Her mind had magnified his worth in 
the absence, and the spell vanished when she saw 
him again ; though he was gifted, popular and hand- 
some. Not many are so conscientious as my sister 
Lucy — not many have been so prayerful and pious 
in the bloom of life — not many are so wise in all 
that makes life valuable and beautiful — not many are 
so exquisitely refined, not many on earth so happy. 
Her understanding was clear, her conclusions just, 
and gentleness did not hinder her from being decid- 
ed and firm. She would have been a blessing to an^ 
place or people. She would have adorned a palace, 
or dignified a cottage. And Oh, how blessed it is to 
remember, that, when the dying day came to her she 
was ^^ ready.'' When she had been sick for days, 
and we felt that she would die, I asked her if she 
had thought about dying soon. "Yes," said she, 
" I have." " Are you willing to go now ? " I asked, 
"yes," she replied, " I wish to do the will of God 
entirely." Then I said, "but how can / live with- 
out you ? " With a look of angelic beauty, that was 
much less of earth than of heaven, she replied, " Oh, 
you can live without me. We shall be parted only a 



50 POEMS AND PROSES. 

little while— just a little while! " That solemn, sacred, 
awful hour can never pass away from me ; and the 
spell of my sister's lovliness can never die. They 
buried her in the garden for my sake. It seemed to 
me I would die of anguish if she could not be near 
us, even in the dust. No grave may ever be more 
beautiful than this was for five summers, and then we 
carried her to the family burying place some distance 
from the house. I feel a sense of widowhood when- 
ever I grieve for my blue-eyed sister. When the an- 
gels with snowy wings are sent to carry my spirit 
home, she will come with them. God in his good- 
ness and power will send her I must beHeve, and I 
shall see her before I reach the gates of pearl. God 
was more than good when he gave to my father's 
house and me, my beautiful, benignant, blue-eyed 
sister. The fairest flowers bloom about her grave on 
earth, and the holiest angels in heaven must dtlight 
to walk, and talk, and worship with her, in her glori- 
fied perfection. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 51 

A LITTLE HISTORY. 

Away in the solitudes of Kentucky in the days 
gone by, there stood a simple house of worship — a 
house that was never finished ; yet it was a house, 
with a gallery and a pulpit. The children of God 
who worshiped there were as unpretending as the 
house, and the pastor was like his flock. He dwelt 
near the church, and preached because he thought it 
his duty, but never dreamed of being admired ox paid 
with an earthly recompense. He was toilworn and 
had little time for study, and his sermons were singu- 
larly monotonous, yet he did not talk in vain. He 
had but one theme, and whatever his' text might be, 
there was no variety in his discourse about Redeem- 
ing Love. Faithfully and nobly he was preaching 
thus and there before I could remember, and for 
years after I had grown to womanhood. He was 
called a good man and a poor preacher ; but now, in 
the retrospect, I love to recall the light that adorned 
his careworn face, when he quoted Isaiah where he 
says : " Ho, every one that thirsteth come ye to the 
waters, and he that hath no money, corned — He 



52 POEMS AND PROSES, 

always quoted from Isaiah and Young's Night 
Thoughts, and his earnest monotony seems sublime to 
me. 

SORROWFUL. 

Among things that are too painful for me, is the 
memory of a httle boy of six years old, whom I once 
saw at his father's funeral. He stood as close to the 
edge of the grave as he possibly could, with his young 
head bowed low, and his eyes streaming. All si- 
lently he stood there in his deep anguish, and gazed 
intently down, until the burial was finished. Other 
mourners were near him ; yet no one held his hand, 
and I did not*ee him turn away from the grave of 
his talented father. But I can see him yet, as he 
stood there, with his deep sense of orphanage and be- 
reavement. That old painter who wished above all 
things to paint a groan, might have been satisfied if 
he could have painted that dear little stricken boy. 
He was a stranger to me; and years have passed 
since that time, yet I can not think of that afflicted 
child, without a sense of suffering, that compels me 
to pray for him, and for the fatherless who are griev- 
ing on earth every where — eve7j where! 



POEMS AND PROSES. 53 

AMAZING. 

I have seen most respectable Christian mothers 
devote much time, and toil, and money, for the mere 
adorning of their grown up children, while they ne- 
glected most strangely and cruelly their own little 
helpless babies. 



ONLY BROWN. 

I traveled once with a lady who had a brown 
complexion and wore a brown dress, with a black col- 
lar, and gloves the color of her dress. It was dis- 
tressing to look at her ! Yet I liked her for her gentle 
voice and ways. Brown is a good color, and very 
becoiPiing to a blonde face. 



OF BIRDS. 



Of all created things, it suits me best to.be what 
I am, a woman, immortal and evangelized. Yet if I 
could envy any other being its powers and privileges, 
it would be a bird — a bird with snowy wings, to waft 
it up into etherial air, and carry it here and there 



54 POEMS AND PROSES. 

amid the beauties and glories of the universe. It is 
not in my power, to tell how wonderful to me birds 
do appear — always clothed in ^©ifess attire — always 
fed, always ready to work in their allotted sphere, 
always happy, and always wise in choosing their 
homes. Their power to fly and float in the free air 
seems partly divine, and helps my apprehension of 
spiritual and eternal things. Nothing below the stars 
and not human, is so elevating and pleasing to me as 
birds — birds that are free and wild and joyous. I 
pity a person who can imprison a bird. A large 
salary would not tempt me to live long with birds in 
Ifedr cages. Their great charm is in their />r«? wings 
— the power to fly and fly, and then perch them- 
selves aloft. It is delightful to know that some birds 
can cross the wide ocean on their own little wings. 
Again I must say if I could envy any creature it 
would be a bird. If I might be anything other than 
woman, let me be a white bird, with wings of my 
own, to waft me up to the blue ether, and help me 
to glorify my Creator, among trees that are grand 
and vines that are beautiful, all near to human 
homes. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 55 



A NEW PROVERB. 

A man has no more right to wrong others to 
please his wife than to please himself. 



VOICES OF MY FAN. 

1 have a Uttle fan which certainly is not like 
any other fan. It is not made of palm, nor pearl, 
nor sandal wood. It has no paste nor paint in its 
fabrication ; and no human artificer has ever touched 
it with his contriving hand. It is not beautiful, but 
it is gentle, strikingly, thrillingly gentle. To the 
touch it is silken-soft, and the warm air seems tender 
in its coolness when you to^s it into waves about you 
with this little fan. It is strange how many voices 
there are in this one small thing ! To me it utters, 
music, and poetry, and theology, in strains almost 

divine. 

It is only an owlet's wing ; and yet it sings to me 
of the hills, and crags, and woods, where it lived, and 
loved, and died. It speaks in deep unwritten poetry 
of a mother's care in its young hfe ; and of an alpme 



56 POEMS AXD PROSES. 

brook that ran down by its nest in winter and in 
summer. It speaks of the rich mosses and long 
ferns that made the banks look green and beautiful, 
in the bleak time of ice and leaflessness. It minds 
me, too, of its own strange existence, with eyes that 
see best in the darkness, and then folding itself 
away from the sunshine and the busy day. To me, 
the owl seems the most poetic of birds. He wakes, 
and sings, and meditates, all the night long. The 
stars all rise, and shine, and set in his presence. I 
suspect he thinks the moon too bright and grand ; 
and when the daylight dawns he grows weary. But 
the night, "the grand, religious night," with all its 
holy stars and voices, is his own by a right divine. 
The infinite Almighty Father gave it peculiarly to 
him, to possess and to enjoy. To me, this is one 
page of theology. Who, but the Lord of all things, 
could have provided such subhmities for a bird? I 
almost understand why he gave it but one song, and 
that song a monotone. A gifted voice of melody 
would have made him far too rich and wonderful for 
a being not immortal. 

This eloquent little fan from the wildwood, grew 
in the romantic forests of southern Kentucky, and 
often speaks to me of human homes, as well as o 



POEMS AND PROSES. 



57 



its own. How softly it has flitted and floated in air 
above the homes of sleeping humanity ! The good 
and the beautiful dwell there ; and the sorrowful and 
weary ones are also there. But sorrow, and toil, and 
care are sacred realities, and this sage little fan re- 
minds me how dignified and lovely their votaries may 
become. 

This little wing has wafted itself over green 
graves in the earth, and temples of worship in the 
forest. In that region there are wonderful rocks, 
and endless mines of coal. Then there are awful 
legends told of robber^s in the days gone by, who 
lived in bands, and gathered stores of gold froni their 
slain victims. Their haunts and homes were a score 
of miles distant from the place of my friends, but 
my brothers there told me, that those horrid stories 
were really true. I know not why my gentle little 
fan reminds me of this, yet sometimes it does, as if 
to make me glad of safety, and tranquiUity and good- 
ness. 

But in all the tones and melodies of this little 
wing, there is nothing so divine as its mention of the 
day in which it died — died in its own woodland, on a 
snow-clad stump, because a boy who was gathering 
wood cast a stone there. And Oh, it was poetic to 



»* 



58 POEMS AND PROSES. 

die on a day like that ! The earth was deeply robed 
in white, and every tree, and vine, and shrub was 
woven about and crowned with snow in wonderful 
perfection, I have never seen any created thing or 
aspect that was so grand and beautiful ! There was 
nothing to be seen 'round about us that day, save 
the whiteness, in its myriad forms of curious lovliness. 
It must have been sent to remind us oi heavenly 
things. And if God can condescend, so to adorn 
his footstool with evanescent whiteness and glory, 
what must be the adorning of His Holy Home, where 
the redeemed, whom he loves are clothed in white 
raiment forever. I have seen beautiful snow-falls 
before and since, but never aught like this, no, nev- 
er ! Would that I could tell how manifold and pro- 
found, to me, are the voices of my fan. 



A PECULIAR GEM. 

It is my lot to inherit and to have, a counter- 
pane which was embroidered by my mother. The 
white fabric of which it is made, wa§ carded, and spun, 
and woven in my grandmother's home, and the snowy 
cotton grew in her own Kentucky grounds. The 



POEMS AND PROSES. 59 

embroidering was commenced while my mother was 
in a boarding-school, but was finished in her paren" 
tal home. The manifold stitches are all monumental 
of the diligent and faithful fingers of my incompar- 
able mother. The fabric is monumental of an age 
and a ho7ne all gone ^ quite gone, and forever ! Yet, it 
was spun and woven in 1809, only seventy years ago. 



THE BROKEN HEARTED. 

"The tears our eyes shall never know, 
Are dearer than the tears that flow." 

— Father Ryan. 

It is often said that "no one ever dies of sor- 
row," but it is far from being true. I have been 
well acquainted with two persons who certainly died 
of anguish from bereavement. The best physicians 
could find no symptom of sickness in either of them, 
yet they pined away and died, with a peculiar sort 
of gladness in departing. One was "a mother in 
Israel," who buried her only son. He was a noble 
being, so strong and wise that he would not address 
the lady he loved and admired above all 'others, be- 



6o POEMS AND PROSES. 

cause she was his cousin, and he deemed it wrong 
for such kindred to marry each other. I feel pleas- 
ure in speaking of that heroic fact, whenever his 
mother's grief is a theme of wonder and of sadness. 
He was singularly good and talented and handsome, 
with lofty and lovely aspirings for the battle of life; 
yet so soon as his education was finished, he sickened 
and died. It is not very strange that his mother's 
heart should break, tho' she knew all about the balm 
there surely is "in Gilead," and "the great Physi- 
cian there." 

The other, was a fair and gentle girl, whose 
betrothed lover died on a journey, away from his 
parental home, and from her. She did not weep, 
or give expression to her sorrow. Extreme serenity 
was the only visible token of the storm that had 
swept over her. She glided on in her home and in 
her social circle, almost as usual for a few months, 
and then grew languid, but not sick. They nursed 
her a few days, and she died, seeming glad to go 
away from all the earth. Home, and friends, and 
fortune, had no charm for her. I do not remember 
her dying words which were told to me, but the 
tones of her parting spirit seem to my imagination 
thus to have whispered : 



POEMS AND PROSES. 6i 

Sweet sisters of mine I am pining to go 

To the land of the loving, where bright waters 

flow ; — 
Where flowers are fadeless and graves are not 

made, 
Where the soul is at home in the Savior's abode 

Ever — forever. 



ANEMONE. 



Of all the flowers that I have see, there is not 
one that touches my heart like the lowly anemone. 
The very leaves are beautiful as flowers, and all its 
stems seem to be made of the harp-strings of angels. 
The simple white flowers blent vvith all these, in 
their peculiar gracefulness and gladness, look more 
as if they came from heaven than any other flower 
we know. I pity a person whb has never seen this 
elegant little gem blooming in April, at the base of 
a grand beechen tree, where mosses and dead leaves 
had kept it warm, between the parted old roots, that 
walled it partly round. There is no flower that I 



62 POEMS AND PROSES. 

SO love to carry about in my memories of childhood, 
and in heaven I hope to see this same pale, 'Mow- 
browed ancjuojie^ 



INACCURATE. 

It is both strange and sad to see the inaccuracy 
that abounds among the very respectable multitudes 
of our land at this time. Only a few persons seem 
to feel the importance of being accurate, in remem- 
bering or narrating anything they see, or hear, or 
read. Certainly there are very few persons, whose 
evidence ought to be taken in a court of justice. It 
must be that mothers and fathers are not faithful 
enough in teaching their children the great import- 
ance of being accurate. 



VERY STRANGE! 

Nothing seems so strange to me as great faults 
in good and sensible people. I have known well, 
only a few persons who did not sometimes astonish 



POEMS AND PROSES. 6j 

me, by words, or deeds, or some sad neglect of hu- 
man or christian duty. Surely we have need to 
pray often with the psalmist and say, " Search wf, 
O God, and see if there be any wicked way in me, 
and lead me in the way everlasting." 



THREE THINGS THAT ARE MOST BEAU- 
TIFUL. 

Affection seems to me, the loveliest of all hu- 
man things, and no form of it is so perfect, as that 
which is manifested by young persons, who are 
deeply devoted to parents, and brothers, and sisters, 
in the parental home. I have seen a few homes 
that were more like heaven than earth, and the 
beauty and blessedness there seemed all to grow out 
of goodness and affection. All real love is divine. 
It is passing beautiful to see a sweet woman kiss a 
rose and say, I love it because it is so fresh from the 
hand of my Father in heaven— I kiss it because His 
touch of power is so really upon its perfect loveli- 
ness. 



64 POEMS AND PROSES. 

Childhood is more beautiful than tongue can 
ever tell. The. faith of a little child is the most per- 
fect and divine of all faith. Perhaps no human 
words can ever describe the gracefulness of child- 
hood, or give a just idea of its perfect, untaught love- 
liness. One must see it in order to apprehend or 
appreciate it. I can believe that angels have more 
to do with children, than mortals will ever know in 
this existence. It must be that the divine Redeem- 
er left on earth a perpetual benediction, for all ''lit- 
tle children," when he took some of them in his holy 
arms and blessed them in the days of his incarna- 
tion. And yet, childhood has many sorrows and 
sufferings, that only a child can know — a child, and 
our all-wise Creator. 

Companionship He who hung the stars, and 
spread the sea, and gave the earth its orbit, fixed in 
the human soul the wish, the everliving thirst for 
something like itself to love. The little child de- 
lights to be with children ; and if they live to be 
threescore years and ten, they still love to commune 
with something like themselves. It is amiable, it is 
beautiful, it is fortunate so to be, if the word of the 
Lord has been guiding and teaching them, all along 
the journey of life. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 65 

A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL. 

No. 1. 

How 1 do enjoy this white convolvulus under 
my window, said I this morning. " Yes, and so do 
I," said my cousin M., 'how did you happen to 
have a white convolvulus and no other just there ? " 
''It did not happen,'' I replied, "for I carefully 
gathered the seed of a white flov/er and planted it 
there, to twine about the green beauty of my little 
cedar tree, and it has grown into the exact fulfill- 
ment of my wishes. It is a comfort and blessing to 
me in many ways; while it beautifully confirms the 
word of the Lord, which says, ' Whatsoever 
a man soweth, that shall he also reap. ' " 
We cannot think too often of this great truth. The 
world is filled with mournful evidences of its neglect- 
ed wisdom. I often think of the sad and guileless 
testimony of poor Byron, on this subject. After 
many bitter groanings and repinings he says, "The 
thorns are of the tree I planted; they've torn me, 
and I bleed." 

I often make a shrine of my beautiful white 
convolvulus, and offer up deep prayers for the way 



66 POEMS AND PROSES. 

ward and unbelieving — that they may learn to plant 
only good seed, and so, "reap the life everlasting" 
that is promised to " the wise-hearted." 



CONVOLVULUS DAYS. 

There are days in September when the morn- 
ing-glory lives all the day, looking up into the sun- 
shine. Those are the most lovely of autumnal days 
— just cold enough, just warm enough, jjist bright 
enough, and always filled with indescribable melody. 
Those are the days when Ughts and shadows are 
divine — the days in which the earth, and air, and 
sky, seem to unite in their divinest anthem, while 
they rest in "the Sabbath of nature." 



THEOLOGY OF AN EGG. 

Can it be that an atheist, or any unbeliever, has 
ever gazed thoughtfully upon a bird, with its won- 
derful plumag'e and powers, and then, remembering 
that it was builded from an egg, will persistently 



POEMS AND PROSES, 67 

doubt the revelations of the Bible ? Let such an 
one break an egg, and look upon its lifeless, curious, 
insensate reality, and then look upon any living bird 
that floats and flies in the free air, and see if he can 
then doubt the divine perfection of a power and 
wisdom far beyond all human comprehension. Even 
one bird so curiously created, would be a miracle, 
quite as wonderful as anything revealed in the word 
of God. The redemption of the world, and the 
resurrection of the dead, are more sublime and 
dear to us, but not more incomprehensible. Surely 
the power that can by any process build an egg into 
a bird, can easily work all the wonders that are re- 
vealed to us in his holy word. 

And then, there is the same omnipotence mani- 
fest in the countless numbers and variety of birds. 
The humming-bird is exquisitely small and elegant, 
and lives among the flowers. The Albatross flies 
only about the ocean, and is '' tireless." The Eagle 
is all strength and pride, and loves a mountain home. 
So does 



68 POEMS AND PROSES. 

" The Condor of the Andes, that can soar 
Through Heaven's unfathomable blue, and 

brave 
The fury of the northern hurricane, 
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home." 
Oh, how wonderfully different are the tribes of 
birds ; and yet, they were and are, each one miracu- 
lously builded from a cold and curious egg. It is 
difficult to believe that a full fledged pea-foitl was 
once only a simple egg, yet no one has ever disput- 
ed it. 



MY MOTHER'S NATAL DAY. 

This fourteenth day of April, 1880, is the anni- 
versary of that day in wiiich my dear mother, was 
given as a sweet new blessing to the house of her 
father — a sinless, helpless little child, and they called 
her Martha. Brothers and sisters older, were there 
to greet her, and be glad of her coming to that gen- 
tle home, where prayers and praises hallowed the 
morning and the evening of every day. I am glad 
that my mother began her earthly pilgrimage in such 



POEMS AND PROSES. 69 

a home — and in the time of violets — and when the 
waking buds and flowers were sending up their 
great, deep whispered anthem of praise, for "the 
resurrection and the Ufe." It seems fitting that the 
day of her nativity should be when the sunshine is 
so beautifully blent with the clouds and tears of the 
sky. In all adverse hours, she was looking ever- 
more at the divine mercy, that was so clear and 
sweet to her in every day of trial and of tears. God 
was very good when he created my mother, for he 
gave her a rich and beautiful heritage of soul. Few 
have been so gentle, and tender, and patient, and 
firm. Her fortitude was the perfection of sublimity. 
Her sorrows, and cares, and toils, were many and 
great, yet she never complained. The devoted 
affection of her husband and children, was one of 
the divinely given influences to strengthen her, and 
she never had an enemy. She was always very 
busy, yet her heart and home were ever ready for 
the warmest hospitality; and nothing but sickness in 
her home, could hinder her from visiting the sick and 
afflicted in her locahty. She was far from being rich 
with common riches, yet she always had something 
to give. Darhng, sweet mother ! It soothes me to 
think of her nature, even before it was evangelized. 



70 POEMS AXD' PJi OSES. 

To-day I am thankful that I never heard her speak a 
censorious word nor a word that was unrefined. 
The atmosphere of her native home must have been 
peculiarly elevating. I love to ren) ember what she 
has told me, about the gentle joys and ways in that 
home of her father and mother. Peace and affection 
and industry, pervaded and consecrated by religion, 
seem to have been the adorning there. My grand- 
father was a farmer, and so just a man, that when 
corn was scarce, and selling very high, he refused to 
receive more than halt the market price, when men 
came to buy his corn for bread. Years after he 
died, the children asked their niolher why she never 
would go out and walk with them as she used to do. 
She told them sadly and calmly, that ''the green 
fields and the forest were not beautiful to her since 
their father died." 

My mother was one year o]d the day her family 
arrived at that Kentucky home, having journeyed 
from their native Virginia, and over the mountains, 
in wagons and on horseback. There was not then 
a railroad in all this world. Yet it may be there 
was more happiness and more greatness of soul than 
there is now, in the fever and the rush. Darling, 
sweet mother 1 it is pleasing to think of her nativity ; 



POEMS AND PROSES. 71 

and to be thankful "for her creation, preservation, 
and redemption." But Oh, it is dreadful to remem- 
ber that she died. The world can never be the same 
that it was, after one sees their own good mother 
die. We may grow calm, and strong, and walk, 
and talk, and work, almost as when she was here; 
yet this is not the same world when she is gone to 
Paradise. A shadow and a vacancy goes with us 
everywhere, and pervades all things. Darling own 
mother ! in her cold repose there was the most per- 
fect aspect of essential majesty that I have ever seen 
— a visible consciousness, saying, I have dorie what I 
could, I "have kept the faidi," and there is a 
"crown laid up for me," which God will give to me 
for Jesus' sake. 



MY TWO FRIENDS. 

One among the gifted has said that, " friend- 
ship is the divinest of all the affections," and it may 
be true, tho' to my mind, all the affections seem 
heavenly. 



72 POEMS AND PROSES, 

It has been my happy lot in life to have many 
dear friends, and to feel a joyous delight in their 
existence. Yet there are two names among them 
all that have a peculiar place in my memory, two 
individualities that have entwined themselves about 
my heart and mind, with a spell of love and beauty, 
which time, and sorrow, and the grave, have no 
power to weaken or alloy. Both of them were cul- 
tivated, and intellectual and pious — both of them 
were witty, and wise, and tender, and true — both 
of them were practical, and excellent, and elegant, 
and the graces which we can name, were so blended 
in each one of them, as to give her a nameless charm 
that can not be defined, and yet, they were differ- 
ent. In aspect and in attainments they were differ- 
ent. They never knew each other until they met in 
my house, and then they were friends. Their homes 
were many miles from mine; yet we saw each other 
whenever it was convenient, and corresponded with 
our pens, much after the manner of romantic lovers. 
One of them was the daughter of a sweet rural 
home, and educated there, by her own accomplished 
mother and father. We first met in the home of a 
mutual friend, and when an hour had been spent 
v/ith her, I was enslaved by her mind and manner. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 73 

If a poet ever found, in real life, the cherished ideal 
of his soul he surely felt as I did then. That spell of 
beauty has never grown old or dim to me. The time 
and place, and the aspect of the universe just then 
and there, are all within my spirit now, with power to 
bless me, as a sweet melody. No cloud or discord 
ever cast a shadow over our friendship ; and in Par- 
adise I expect to hold her hand in mine with pecu- 
liar dehght. On earth her name was Sally. A few 
years after this rural friendship began, I found in a 
city, the second one of my Two Friends. I was 
v^isiting my sister, whose husband was a minister, 
much admired, and a fine theologian. A young 
lady who had been raised in that city, and lived 
an ear, visited my brother one evening, to discuss 
with him some given point in theology. I was a 
happy listener; and when the evening was half spent 
my heart and mind were agiin enchanted with words 
and manner. A new joy was in my soul, and it 
seemed to me the angels had brought me another liv- 
ing jewel, that was both radiant and rare. Her 
name was Martha; and my first impressions of her 
were strangely unerring. 

Happy years of friendship glided by, and then, 
one by one my darh'ng friends were led to the altar 



74 POEMS AND PROSES. 

by worthy gentlemen. I stood there beside each 
one of them, in her bridal robe and Avreathe. 
Both of them were very happy in their married lot. 
Yet, al^s! both of them departed from all terrestrial 
joys and cares, before tlie sweet roses of life had 
lost any of iheir freshness and beauty. I have 
worn the black raiment of sorrow for each of these 
dear friends as for a sister. They have been long 
years in Paradise, yet they still live in the recesses 
of my heart, as bright, and good, and great, as they 
were in the rich summer-time of our frindship. The 
friend>, and books, and flowers, they loved are dear 
to me, and the songs they sang are sweeter to me 
than any other songs. It is beautiful to know that, 
every one in my parental home loved my two friends, 
and that they always enjoyed visits to us, with a 
sort of heavenly delight. My brothers and sister 
who are living now on earth, love them yet with a 
poetic interest. It is sweet to know we helped each 
Other to go liii(mi.iiiLVinrl, and that they will gladly 
greet me at the gates of pearl. Rich, and beautiful, 
and blessed to me is the gift of friendship — friend- 
ship that can not die, because it is a part of my im- 
mortal soul. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 75 

TWO LITTLE WHITE SLIPPERS. 

Among other things that are more valuable to 
me than to any other person, I have a small casket, 
containing simple memorials, of dear and lovely 
friends, who, one by one, have "closed their course 
before me." There are tresses and ringlets of soft 
hair, all cut from Hfeless brows, that are still fresh 
and beautiful as ever. There are little pincushions, 
with pins stuck here and there, by fingers of beauty 
and hands of worth, that have long been folded 
away in silent rest. There are threaded needles, 
which were threaded by the happy and loving, who 
sickened and died before those needles could stitch 
the embroidery for which they were threaded. In 
this peculiar treasury of mine, there is a pair of 
white slippers, which, to me, are eloquently fraught 
with poetic and historic value. They speak to me 
thrillingly of the sweet bride whose fairy feet walked 
in them once, and of the beautiful evening when, in 
her parental home, she was given away in marriage. 
They tell me again of her deep heart and beauteous 
brow, and how she was surrounded thot evening by 
dear and gentle friends, whom she had loved from 
her childhood. I have never seen a lovelier even- 



76 POEMS AND PROSES. 

ing than that loth of September, with its serene 
atmosphere of light, and friends, and flowers. The 
universe seemed to be all in sympathy with the heart 
and history of the gentle bride. Not many have 
been so happy and so well beloved — not many have 
been so guileless, and earnest, and good. Her 
name was Angeline, and my own dear brother was 
the bridegroom, so I called her my Angeline sister, 
and such she really was. The light in her dark eyes 
was tender, and pensive, and sweet, while music 
and affection were a large part of her evangelized 
nature. It is solacing to remember her ways and 
words, and to commune with anything she has 
touched or sung. I love to recall her aspect when 
she softly swept the cords of an instrument, and 
sang with her own peculiar feeling and simplicity 
the songs she loved. 

Many and sacred are the memories that bind 
me to those little white shoes. While they remind 
me of so much that is pleasing, they also have 
whisperings of sorrow, of anguish and bereavement. 
When the next September came, my Angeline sister 
sickened and died, and wailings were heard at the 
mention of her name. But it is blessed to know 
that her death was sublimely triumphant. Her 



POEMS AND PROSES. 77 

faith in redeeming love was a glad reality, and she 
was ready for the unexpected transition. In her dy- 
ing days she bequeathed to me her bridal slippers, 
and so, they have solemn voices of admonition, and 
all they say is true. They reiterate and testify the 
words of our faithful Redeemer, when he said, " /<? 
ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not the 
Son of Man cometh." Gentle, sweet sister: 

"'Twould ill requite her goodness to constrain 
Her unbound spirit into bonds again, — " 

Yet the world would be richer if she were here, and 
life would be more beautiful and serene to me. 
Nevertheless, I prefer the will of God to my will, 
and like Job, it is my privilege to say and feel, '' tho' 
He slay me, yet will I trust in Him." It is well 
that these little shoes have power to make me more 
wise, and tender, and devout. The watching an- 
gels know much about their usefulness. It is not a 
vain thing for them to say to the living, "be mind- 
ful of death," and forget not the excellent departed. 
My sister Angeline was a petted darling from her 
infancy, yet few are so moderate in vv^ishing — few 
are so loving and unselfish. Long years and many 
sorrows have swept over us since she departed, yet 



78 POEMS AND PROSES. 

her memory is still sweet and dear to me, and will 
be so until we meet among the white robed throng 
up in the home of God. 



THOUGHTS OF MINE. 

Who by trying could estimate the many beaute- 
ous things that go down to the grave? The fair and 
lofty brows — the hands that are chiseled, and folded, 
and white — the eyes that are divine, even with the 
lashes folded down — the rich hair that was a glory to 
maidens and to mothers — the forms divine that seem 
graceful even in the narrow casket. Oh, the many 
lovely things that go down to the grave, when the 
spirit has gone back to God who gave it. Alas! for 
the blessed hands, and feet, and faces, and the rich 
ringlets and tresses that sleep on in the grave. 
There is sublime pathos in the thought of the count- 
less glo7'ies that turn to ashes in the tomb. 

To suffer long and be kind, may surely be 
counted among the things that are divinely beautiful 
on earth. Injustice and ingratitude are so difficult 
to endure. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 79 

Nothing that I have ever seen or felt seems 
colder than a faithless friend — nothing but death. 

A person may go round the entire world, and 
not see anything more wondei-ful than water ^ limpid 
life-giving, common water. Few things are so beau- 
tiful as water. 

The Fatherly kindness of the Lord seems to me 
wonderful in the gift of brooms— Qomx^on brooms. 
How miserable human homes v/ould be without the 
help of brooms. - 

The great Napoleon seems to me nothing more 
nor less than the most splendid fnonster the world 
ever saw. 

All lovely women are like General Washington, 
because they are ''first in the hearts of their coun- 
trymen." 

How poor are the ways of sin ! How peaceful 
are the fruits of righteousness. Every where on 
earth this truth is written in characters that can not 
be mistaken. 

Sweet and beautiful indeed is "love's young 
dream," when it is a real affection for one who is 
certainly worthy to be loved. 



8o POEMS AND PROSES. 

To me, there is in every human face a some- 
thing that pleads for sympathy — something that tells 
of a soul within that is needy. It may be the face 
of a foe or a stranger, it may be old or young, beau" 
tiful or homely, 'tis all the same. If I really look 
into the living face of a human being, that pleading 
is always there, and wakes a thought of sorrows, and 
prayers, and tears. 

We are told that the Savior of the world is 
"the rock of our salvation." To me that rock seems 
broader than the universe, and whiter than snow. 

Ignorance is interesting and pathetic when it is 
conscious of itself, and anxious to learn. But igno- 
rance that is arrogant and satisfied is distressing. 

I would rather see the ocean in its grand sim- 
plicity than any other of the wonders of this world. 

We can not understand the blessedness of Re- 
deeming Love, until we have buried some one from 
the circle of our best beloved. Then it is, we can 
hear with joy unutterable the voice of Him who 
says, "I am the resurrection and the life; he that 



POEMS AND PROSES. 8i 

believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he 
live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall 
never die." 

There must be a want of rectitude in those per- 
sons who are more amiable in company, than in 
their own home circle. It is more than cruel for a 
person to be unkind and unlovely at home. Yet 
there are such persons. 

Let it be taught to the ends of the earth that, to 
an unmarried person, no one can fill the place of a 
bi'other. No one can bless like a brother. No one 
can help like a brother. It is also true that no one 
can wound as can a brother. No other affection is 
so beautiful, I am sure, 2^^ fraternal affection. 

There is manifold meaning and beauty in that 
Scripture which declares that Christ is our Elder 
Brother. Beautiful, beautiful indeed! 

There is nothing stranger than to know that, 
many have looked upon the faces of the dead, who yet 
can be unkind to those who are living. Strangest 
of all, they can bury their own beloved dead, and 
when it is passed, be cruel lo those who love them 
and deserve their kindness. 



82 POEMS AND PROSES. 

What must we think of an educated daughter of 
beauty, who willftilly marries a reprobate, and then 
parts from him all to please herself; though in the 
marrying and the parting, she greatly afflicts and 
oppresses her father's house, and distresses all who 
love her? This is a great evil under the sun. Surely 
the world is weary of it. Satan would like to marry 
everybody on earth to the wrong person. It is his 
great device — his grand endeavor. Yet, some 
"matches are made in heaven." 

Few persons apprehend the perfection of that 
prayer which says, ' ' give me neither poverty nor 
riches." 

How can a rational person indulge in anger, 
when it is divinely written that " anger resteth in the 
bosom of fools?" 

When we go into the land of ligh', I expect to 
hear from the record on high, that the noblest of the 
children of men have lived, and loved, and toiled, 
and died, in obscurity; perhaps amidst the woes of 
ingratitude, injustice and privation. 

Children are not apt to be carefully taught the 
paramount value of rectitude, and an understanding 



POEMS AND PROSES. 83 

of the way to practice it. Many persons forget that 
the fine Hnes of rectit 'de go into all we say, or do, 
or think, and into many little duties that are left un- 
done. There is a blessedness in conscious rectitude 
in comparison with which the love, the renown, the 
splendors, of all this world are less than nothing. 

'Jliat person who believes the Bible, and loves 
to read it, can never be very lonely ; and the life of 
such an one can never be a failure. 

The most gifted minds have declared that the 
Bible contains more of classic lore, and beauty, and 
grandeur, than all the many volumes that have been 
written by the children of men. Blessed are they 
who can so appreciate divine literature. 

Certainly the human family would be happier 
and better if they would think and talk more about 
the minishy of angels, as it is taught in the Word of 
the Lord. 

It must be a great misfortune to read a poor 
book; and a dire calamity to read a bad book. Let- 
ters and printing are the glory of this world, only as 
they help us to live nobly, and prepare us to die tri- 
umphantly. 



84 POEMS A AW PROSES. 

Nothing earthly is so blessed and beautiful as a 
wise and happy marriage of two human beings. But 
Satan hates such blessedness, and wonderful is his 
success in having the good and true wedded to the 
wrong person. 

If a man would "keep the whiteness of his 
soul " and have his home an Eden, let him be care- 
ful what manner of person he loves and weds. 

The highest and happiest attainment is really 
and tenderly to love our enemies, when they have 
made no amends for their injustice and cruelty. No 
other test of an evangelized spirit compares with 
that test. 



NOT TRUE. 



It is quite a common thing for clever people to 
say that where there is family discord, both parties 
are always culpable. Certainly this is fiol true. Has 
any one ever believed that Abel was in any way a 
transgressor when his brother slew him? His of- 
fering to the Lord was accepted; and Cain hated 
Abel because God loved him. We could not be- 



POEMS AND PROSES. 85 

lieve this if it were not written in the Bible. No 
one has ever said that Joseph was doing wrong 
when his brethren sold him into captivity, and sent 
him away from all that he loved on earth. The un- 
holy malice of Cain, and the inhumanity of Joseph's 
brethren, did not leave this world when they were 
dead and buried. Oh, no! injustice, and selfish- 
ness, and cruelty are still on earth, and the inno- 
cent are still the victims of wrong and oppression. 
I have seen it with mine eyes, and must testify 
against the common cant on this curious and mourn- 
ful subject. I have known more than one among 
the very patient, forbearing and affectionate, who 
suffered as much inhumanity as did Joseph of old, 
that great and good Israelite. If family discord was 
odious in the homes of Abel and Joseph, it is much 
more hideous now, when the world is full of light 
and truth, and the rich mercies of Redeeming Love. 
Of all the discords of this world it surely is the 
most unnatural and Satanic; and the person who 
causes it is sure to be working in the service of 
Satan, the great enemy of all that is good and beau- 
tiful in human life. Every human home ougJit to be 
a heavenly place. That is one of the divine inten- 
tions of Redeeming Love. Certainly, certainly ! 



86 POEMS AND PROSES. 

THE WIND. 

I know it is a fearful thing sometimes; and 
Queen Elizabeth said she "hated ihe wind," yet I 
love it, I love it — the atmospheric air set in motion! 
How fresh and free it is ; and Oh, how wonderful I 
So potent, so abounding, and yet so intangible! It 
never grows old to nie. The vines, and flowers, 
and foliage, seem as glad and graceful now, in their 
play with the winds, as they did in my childhood, 
when first I learned to love and enjoy the beautiful. 
It is delightful to listen to the rushing air, and re- 
member that it is written, " God walketh upon the 
wings of the wind." And yet, and yet, I can not 
enjoy a storm. Trembling and awe is my portion 
when the wind rages. I would sicken with fear 
sometimes, if it were not written and sure that 
"God holdeth the winds in the hollow of his hand." 
It is a high attainment to feel as did the devout poet 
when he said : 

" Howl, winds of night, your force combine. 
Without His high behest. 
Ye shall not in the mountain pine 
Disturb the sparrow's nest." 



POEMS AND PROSES. 87 

AN OPINION. 

Two of my intelligent friends have said that they 
beheve " all educated families and individuals are r^^/^/ 
with regard to imperfectiofis of nature and living." 
It is not so. To me they are immeasurably differ- 
ent. Some families remind me of Paradise before 
the fall ; so earnest, and upright, and peaceful are 
they. Some individuals are certainly just a Utile 
lower than the angels, in their patient tenderness 
and toiling benignity. And, there are educated 
families and persons as different from those, as the 
daylight is different from rayless night — or as 
discord is different from melody. Mortal mind can 
not measure the difference there often is, in very 
respectable people. 



A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL. 

No. 2. 

October 7th, 1876. It is almost sunset, and I 
must record the peculiar sweetness and beauty of this 
day, ^s it glided over me, and poured its mercies 
about my pathway. After waking in peace this morn- 



88 POEMS AND PROSES. 

ing, I opened an east window. The sun was just 
beginning to peep over the horizon, and a glad smile 
of the morning light said thrillingly, how^ great is the 
power and glory of Him who created the universe ! 
I looked down upon the earth, and the dew upon 
the grass was frozen. A grave looking, common 
hen, was leading her five little chickens over the frost- 
ed grass, and they cried to her for help and pity, as 
if the little white feet could not endure the cold. 
She spoke to them tenderly, and then turned intelli- 
gently back, to where she had passed a little island 
of dry sand, and there she sat down to spread her 
wings and warm her suffering children. How ten- 
derly and entirely she enfolded them ! And Oh, how 
sweetly they talked to her ! Sounds could not be 
more liquid, and loving, and grateful and confiding, 
than the tones of those little birds that nestled under 
my window. It was a sweet and beautiful reality. 
It waked in my heart a new joy in thinking of 
the tender and divine Redeemer, when he wept 
over Jerusalem and said: ''How often would I 
have gathered you together as a hen gathereth her 
brood under her wings, and ye would not." Inevi- 
tably I knelt lowly down to pray, that thus His holy 
power and love might enfold very many, and me, 



POEMS AND PROSES. 89 

from the coldness and evils of earth, and keep me 
forever near to himself. Certainly the soft wing of 
His loving kindness has been over me through all 
this day of my pilgrimage. For this and for all His 
mercies, I would here record a note of praise. 



THE IDEAL. 



Surely it is true that the ideal faculty is not cul- 
tivated as it should be. A higher and finer idea of 
the value and dignity of common toil, and care, and 
duty, is much needed, to make life easier and sweet- 
er to many whom I observe. I would wake up in 
the mind of every child, a true ideal of the import- 
ance and beauty of the every-day things of life, and the 
great virtue there is in domg every thing v/ell, be- 
cause he is accountable to God, and because God 
sees him- perpetually. 



ELOQUENCE, 



It has often been my privilege to listen to the 
preaching of a plain apostolic minister of the Gospel, 
who was well beloved and admired, though no one 
ever called him eloquent. In one of his sermons, 



90 POEMS AND PROSES. 

he said, in my hearing : "I as much believe in the 
Lord Jesus Christ, as I believe the sun will rise, and 
shine, and set." To me, this was sublimely eloquent, 
and so full of power, that I wish to write it in this 
little book for the sake of those I love. 



SLEEP. 



Who has ever told how solemn, and wonderful, 
and benign a thing is sleep} It is a mystery, a medi- 
cine, a miracle, a divine benefection to the children 
of men. How essential, how inevitable, how beau- 
tiful it is ! How can any thinking person sleep, and 
wake in the light of morning, without feeling '^ as a 
little child''' in the arms of an infinite Father and Pre- 
server. 



APPRECIATIVE^^ 

Blessed is that person who appreciates good 
books, good people, and the beautiful iu all things. 



POEMS AND PROSES. 91 

ANCESTRAL HOMES. 

Certainly there is much to enjoy in the privil- 
ege of making one's own home — buying the land, 
building the houses, and having every thing about it 
new and fresh. Nevertheless, there is a great charm, 
a poetic spell in the idea of old ancestral homes — 
homes that have not been bought or sold for ages, 
but have been quietly handed down from father to 
son for many generations. I love to think of the 
strong walls, and ample rooms, and halls and galler- 
ies of those dear old homes. How grand the trees 
must be, after braving a thousand storms, while the 
ivy still clings about them, like woman's love, Hving 
only to adorn and bless. How charming the old 
Ubrary must be, looking out on the lawn ; and how 
wonderful the spells and legends of the sweet family 
room, where all the little children of the household 
have walked, and played, and prattled in sinless 
beauty — and where the honored and beloved parents 
of many generations have died. But the great old 
Bible is still there on its stand ; and the great-great- 
grand-father's desk is near the same east window as of 
old ; and the well kept diary is still in its best recesses. 
But grandmother's harp is in the drawing-room, 



92 POEMS AND PROSES. 

where pictured faces, are smiling from the walls, just 
as they did when her white fingers swept the cords, and 
her sweet voice sang to the living and loving, songs 
of the olden time. It must be riches to inherit such 
a home ; and work, and learn, and worship in such 
an atmosphere of kindred associations ; and to hear 
the voices roundabout tell of noble deeds of gentle 
sires, and sweet and lovely lives of sainted mothers, 
gone — all gone. Whole volumes of beauty might be 
written about Ancestral Homes. 



MAY YOU DIE AMONG YOUR KINDRED. 

"May you die among your kindred." is an ori- 
ental salutation to a stranger; and perhaps there is 
no human heart that does not respond to its tender 
pathos. The person who said it first must have 
watched the dying pulse of some exile from home , 
and tried in vain to console that exile for the absence 
of his beloved kindred. 

May you die among your kindred ! Oh, who 
would not wish it for every human being that Uves 
and loves, on all the wide, wide earth. Death seems 



POEMS AND PROSES. 93 

to have a torture and a torment not his own, when 
we think of the soul that takes its flight from all 
visible things in the midst of strangers, with no kin- 
dred look, or hand, or voice, to soothe in that solemn 
hour. We know that God and his angels are always 
close beside the children of light, and that they 
alone can really help us while we die, yet they smile 
on the yearning heart that pines to die in the midst 
of earthly friends. Many and earnest are the souls 
that utter the same one prayer and say: " Grant, 
Q Father in Heaven, grant, for Jesus' sake, that I 
may die among my kindred." 



SOLACING. 



It is sweet to feel that I love God more for his 
holiness, than for his unspeakable goodness to me. 
It is a sacred joy to know, that he is not wilhng for 
any human being to sin, and that He dwells in a 
home, "where there entereth in not anything that 
defileth." 



94 POEMS AND PROSES. 

It is sweet to remember that from my childhood 
I have always listened gladly to the admonition and 
instruction of those •' who cared for my soul." Per- 
haps no such word was ever lost on me. All the 
evangelical books that have been loaned or given to 
me, I have read with gratitude and love, and felt 
that it would be evil not to read them. And now, in 
the evening of my life, I feel that God has loved and 
blessed me, for thus listening and learning in the 
morning of life and always. 



How blessed it is to belong entirely and eter- 
nally to God. 



•«. * 



INDEX. 

POEMS. 

PAGE, 

Word.s to a friend departed 7 

A til ought . - . 9 

All things speak to me of God 9 

I see thee still, my father 11 

The soul of the bereft 12 

A sweet thought 13 

Vines 13 

My song in the night 14 

To my sister Lucy 15 

To my mother's eyelash 17 

My sister sleeps i7 

Sabbath hymn ]8 

In memoriam 18 

A fragment of thought 19 

Hereafter 19 

An history 20 

On the death of a youig pastor 21 

That song 22 

An evening supplication 23 

To a white pebble 24 

A song of my spirit 25 

Prayer of the motherless 26 

Washington 26 

Joy in believing 27 

Presentation for my brother's Bible 28 

An evening meditation 29 

One tear 29 

The clouds yO 

On seeing three very wicked men ... 30 

Lines for my sister Lucy's album 31 

Snowflakes 32 

PROSES. 

Thoughts among the flowers 33 

Do not forget 3(j 

Curious wisdom 37 



96 INDEX. 

A lesson 37 

Miserable , . 38 

Great riches 39 

An apprehension 39 

Of doctors 39 

Curious mothers 4 

Divine 40 

'I'hat home by the river 40 

My blue-eyed sister 47 

A little history 51 

Sorrowful 52 

Amazing 53 

Only brown 53 

Of birds 53 

A new proverb 55 

Voices of my fan 55 

A peculiar gem 58 

The broken 1 earted 59 

Anemone ' ' 61 

Inaccurate 62 

Very strange 62 

Three things the most beautiful 63 

A leaf from my journal, No. 1 65 

Convolvulus days 66 

Theology of an egg 66 

My mother's natal day 68- 

My two friends 71 

Two little white slippers 75 

Thoughts of mine 78 

Not true 84 

The wind 86 

An opinion 87 

Leaf from my journal, No. 2 87 

The ideal 89 

Eloquence 89 

Sleep . . . . ; 9IJ 

Appreciation 00 

Ancestral homes 91 

May you die among your kindred • • • .92 

Solacing 93 



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